Friends & Fauxs Page 7

  “Yes, I was,” he laughed. “But so were you.”

  She turned to face him. “Now that the pleasantries are over with, I’ll get to the point.” She playfully caressed him. It was time for round two.

  “Oh, is ‘pleasantry’ the new Park Avenue euphemism for sex?” he teased.

  “For us it is, particularly given our secret history.”

  “In that case, may we have many pleasant returns.”

  He grabbed her and kissed her hard, while he grew long and strong. When she was breathless with desire, he headed south. After ten minutes of skilled oral ministrations, it was clear that this was a trip he took often. The man had crazy skills.

  When he finally crawled up to reclaim her in one deep stroke, she tossed her head back and moaned, “Ohhhhh, Max…” just before she climaxed for the third time.

  Chapter 14

  Now that Imelda had summarily dismissed Lydia as her daughter’s publicist, and because Gillian still stubbornly refused to hire a private assistant, Imelda promoted herself to Gillian’s de facto right hand, at least until Brandon could find a suitable replacement for Lydia. Though it wasn’t in Imelda’s DNA to cater to anyone, she kept her eye on the prize and played her role to the hilt.

  Sailing into Gillian’s boudoir, she carried a brand new notepad and a Mont Blanc pen poised for some serious work. Gillian was lying on a chaise in the resplendent room with a satin sleeping mask pulled down over her eyes.

  “Mom, you really should knock,” Gillian said, without moving. She knew exactly who it was without even bothering to pull the mask away. Brandon had never entered her private sanctuary uninvited, so this annoying habit her mother had of bursting into rooms in her house was really quite irritating. The estate was certainly large enough that Imelda’s presence need not be felt; however, she seemed to be omnipresent.

  “I am your mother,” Imelda reminded her, even though she may have been better served reminding herself.

  “I realize that, but this is my private dressing room.” It was actually a bit more than that. It was Gillian’s retreat, where she went to be alone, away from Brandon and the staff. Since the Italian Stallion article, she’d been spending quite a bit more time here, while Brandon seemed to be sulking, yet hovering at the same time, making her feel like a captive, and him a warden.

  “Whatever. We don’t have time to squabble over this. We have a very busy day.” Imelda flipped her notebook open. “At eleven, we meet with Daniel Schwarz at the studio to review new scripts. At one we have that photo shoot with Vogue. And at six we meet with your stylist and Christian Siriano to discuss your gown for the awards ceremony,” she rattled off.

  “Cancel them all,” Gillian said and rolled over toward the opposite wall. Between the press, Brandon’s pouting, and the seriousness of Rowe’s illness and Reese’s deception, combined with her mother descending on them like Patton’s army, Gillian’s nerves were frayed. That sense of foreboding was now ever-present.

  “Are you sick, or are you crazy?” Imelda snarled. There was no way that she’d let this spoiled brat of hers keep her from meeting the all-powerful and very single Mr. Schwartz or the Christian Siriano. After all, she had her own Oscar gown to worry about, too.

  “Probably both,” she shot back. “I’m sick of you and Brandon acting like this is your award and career, and I’m probably crazy to be married to him and to put up with you.” There she’d said it.

  “You ungrateful …” Imelda was truly taken aback that her daughter was being so selfish and didn’t appreciate everything that she had. She certainly didn’t appreciate the nine months of torture or the residual stretch marks it took to bring her into the world. She could have gotten rid of her, but she didn’t—though, truth be told, the only reason she didn’t was because she needed to bring a baby home from the hospital to hold on to the piece of husband she had at the time. Thank God she’d met her second husband six months later and was able to run away with him to a far better life. And she’d even taken Gillian with her when she could have left her behind in that small hick town in North Carolina! Then she wouldn’t be lying here whining about being nominated for an Oscar. The nerve! Clearly if it weren’t for her, Gillian wouldn’t be living this fabulous fairy tale existence, so this little pity party really pissed her off. As far as Imelda was concerned, Gillian owed her very life, and everything in it, to her.

  Gillian ripped the sleeping mask off of her face, exposing raw anger; after years of biting her tongue, she was finally standing up to her mother. “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t ask to be born. Nor did I ask to be dragged around the world on all of your gold-digging expeditions, chasing one rich man after another.”

  “Though you sure seem to have been taking notes,” Imelda sniped back, coolly looking around her at her daughter’s extravagant boudoir, which was larger than the average New York City apartment.

  “How dare you!” Gillian hissed. She’d never talked to her mother like that before, but these last weeks had truly stretched her patience and worn her nerves.

  Imelda was the most passive-aggressive person Gillian had ever known. She would do something seemingly very nice for you, then squander all of the goodwill on the next fucked up thing she’d do to you, and get away with it by reminding you of her completely unsolicited prior generosity. Worse yet, she played up to Brandon like a dreamy-eyed teenage girl, though it wasn’t his puppy-dog eyes that drew her in but rather the dollar signs she saw reflected in them. Sometimes Gillian felt as if her mother would sleep with him if it would ensure access to his wealth. She was forced to face the coldest and hardest truth of all: her mother was a cold-hearted opportunist who would throw anybody under the bus if it meant that her ride would be smoother, faster, and take her farther, even her own daughter.

  “How dare you!” Imelda shot back.

  Now they were toe-to-toe, and nose-to-nose, and Gillian was not backing down. After a few long and torturous seconds, Imelda realized that this was a battle she couldn’t win, not here, not now, so she decided to hold her fire and retreat for the time being.

  “Gillian, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she finally said, lowering her head. “I am sorry for the mistakes that I’ve made in my life and, more importantly, for how they’ve affected you.” She reached out to touch Gillian’s forearm. “That’s why I’m here now. I realize that I can’t change the past, but I can try to make up for it by helping you take advantage of your opportunities.” A swell of tears brimmed her eyes. She hoped that she hadn’t overacted the part; the last thing she wanted to do was reapply eyeliner and mascara, and she certainly did not want to meet the head of a major film studio sporting red and swollen eyes.

  Gillian was genuinely touched by her mother’s words and sincerity, never realizing that her own acting ability hadn’t materialized out of thin air. Like mother, like daughter…

  “Would you accept my apology?” The doe-eyed look was priceless.

  “Of course,” Gillian said.

  The two women embraced. Gillian clung to her mother, praying that this was truly a turning point for them. With Lauren being out of the country with Gideon so much, she didn’t have anyone to really lean on, so she remained hopeful that she could count on her mother after all.

  She realized that from afar fame and fortune seemed to make life so much easier, but the late Biggie Smalls had had a point when he said, “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.”

  Chapter 15

  Her mother was hardly cold in her grave when Charli boarded the shuttle for the three-hour-long ride from Miner back to St. Louis’s airport, hopefully for the very last time.

  The days preceding the funeral were a surreal blur of activity as her aunt made arrangements for the service and burial, while evading Charli’s questions about her mother, whom she now felt as if she never really knew. Aunt Vioni claimed that when her sister and brother-in-law moved to Miner, shortly after her birth, she had no reason to think that Charli wasn’t their biological child, and tha
t her sister had not once alluded to anything of the sort.

  Going through her mother’s personal effects, Charli searched for clues to her identity. The only thing she found, aside from childhood memorabilia, was her birth certificate, which listed Teresa and Henry Kemble as her parents. According to the document, she was born in Waynesboro, North Carolina, on June 7, 1976, and weighed five pounds and ten ounces. Nothing surprising there. Maybe she’d misheard or misunderstood her mother, after all her speech had been severely hindered by the stroke, plus she was heavily sedated and near death, so it was entirely possible that even if she had said the word adopted that it was only a delusional rant.

  Charli hated the idea of being the clichéd adopted child, who inevitably went searching for her real parents, but the desire sprang up in her instantly. She wanted to know who they were and why they gave her away. Sometimes she envisioned a loving young couple that was simply unable to take care of her and had given her away as a sacrifice to ensure that she had a better life. During her darker hours she wondered whether her natural father was also a pedophile, or maybe something worse. She envisioned a young drug addict/prostitute who’d given birth to her the way others had a bowel movement, wiped herself clean, and then tossed away the evidence. In either scenario she felt as discarded as she had after being used by Lil’ Easy.

  Sitting in the window seat on the way back to Atlanta, Charli fought back tears as she reflected on that awful night before she left for Miner. After the call from her aunt, she’d only been focused on getting to her mother’s bedside, then on the shocking bedside confession, and later on the funeral, so this was the first time that she’d been able to reflect on the demeaning hour spent with Lil’ Sleazy. It still made her physically sick just to think about it. Right then she decided that as soon as she got home and showered she would march right into the club, pick up her things, and leave for good.

  It didn’t matter that she had no idea what she’d do for work, or that she had no marketable skills to speak of (unless proficiency at the booty shake counted), or that she had no family or friends for support. She did have a bank account that thankfully had enough money in it to last her for a while.

  Later that evening she walked into the club sans the shoulder-length wig that she normally wore to work, and without the extra heavy hand of makeup, or the garish clothes. Flash barely recognized her.

  “I’m done,” was all she said to him.

  “You haven’t even started. In fact you can’t be coming to work looking like that,” he frowned.

  “You don’t understand, I quit.”

  “You what?!”

  “You heard me, I quit!”

  “You gotta be kidding with that big payday you got last week.” He chuckled. Not many hos get ten thousand dollars an hour for the puss.

  “Read my lips, moron. I’m done, finished, finito.” She turned to leave, aware of the clique of girls who stood nearby whispering as they watched the sideshow begin.

  He grabbed her arm and swung her back around. Flash wasn’t letting her go that easy. She was suddenly a very lucrative meal ticket. Lil’ Easy had tipped him a grand after their visit to the private suite, and then assured him that he would be a regular behind its dingy doors for as long as Charli was there, too. He had to talk some sense into her. “Don’t be stupid. Just because your mother died, doesn’t mean that you should throw all of this away,” he said gesturing at the sleazy joint as though it were the Taj Mahal.

  “Let go of me,” she demanded.

  “Charli, listen to me—” he said, tightening his grip.

  Before he could finish his sentence, the palm of her right hand met the side of his face in a resounding smack. His eyes bulged in surprise. How dare a whore slap him! A blind rage consumed him, he pulled his fist back, ready to take a swing, when a man grabbed him from behind and said, “That’s enough. Let the lady go.”

  Relief filled Charli, knowing that most of the patrons and certainly none of the girls were planning to intercede on her behalf; in fact, most were sitting back waiting for the real action to start. Who cared that a ho was about to get her ass whipped?

  “Who the fuck are you?” Flash demanded of the stranger.

  “Don’t worry about it, just know that you’re dead if you put your hand on the lady again. Got that?”

  The stranger took Charli’s hand and ushered her out of the club. When they reached her car, she turned to him, still shaking, and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Max. Maximillian Neuman, the third,” he said.

  “Thank you so much,” she whimpered. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.” Tears left a wet trail down her cheeks at the thought of being beaten on top of all the other indignities that she’d suffered.

  For the first time, Max looked at her closely. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Charli. Charli Kemble.”

  A puzzled expression settled on his handsome features. “Where are you from?”

  Suddenly weary Charli dug in her purse for her keys, ready to leave the place and the stranger. She had never been comfortable answering questions from strangers. “Why do you ask?” She pressed the button to open her car door.

  He backed up a step, realizing that she was feeling threatened and he did not want to scare her away. “It’s just that you bear an uncanny resemblance to someone I used to know.” He closely studied her features, ignoring the hair cut and color, which had been dyed black, and taking off about ten pounds, along with the layers of makeup, which were still a bit on the heavy side, and there standing before him was none other than the spitting image of the Gillian Tillman-Russell.

  Chapter 16

  Reese hadn’t prayed, really prayed, to God, since she was twelve and wanted a pink bicycle for Christmas. It hadn’t worked then, but she had to give it another try now, so she got down on her knees and prayed hard that her bone marrow would be a good match for Rowe, so she wouldn’t have to pry open the Pandora’s box of his paternity.

  She grabbed a bag of Rowe’s favorite games and books that Gretchen had packed and headed toward the door. Before she got there, the phone rang, which she planned to ignore, until Gretchen, ever dutiful, came running after her. “Mrs. Nolan, it’s Mr. Nolan. He wants to speak to you.”

  She would much rather have done without speaking to Chris just now, but realized that this was not the time to be ignoring him.

  “Hi, Chris.”

  “How’s Rowe?” You could hear the fear in his voice clear across the continent. He’d wanted to fly out to the coast days ago when Rowe was diagnosed, skipping a few games, but Reese convinced him that it would be better if he kept things normal, so as not to alarm Rowe, who knew the Knicks’ schedule better than Chris did. She’d promised to keep him up to date on everything that was happening and to make sure that they spoke at least twice a day.

  “He had his first round of chemo yesterday. He was about the same last night, but definitely seemed drained this morning. I’m on the way to the hospital now, so I’ll know more later today.”

  “They do expect this to cure it though, right?”

  “Everyone is optimistic,” she hedged. “Gotta run, I’ll call you later.” She wanted to avoid any more of his questions at all costs. Hopefully, when she called him later, she could tell him about the severity of Rowe’s condition, the need for a bone marrow transplant, and the fact that she would be the donor.

  Thirty minutes later she was again sitting across the desk from Dr. Young.

  “I know how much you wanted to be Rowe’s donor, and I understand that mother’s need to fix everything, but in this case you can’t. There weren’t enough markers to make you a good match. We have to have at least six and you only had three. I’m sorry, Reese.”

  Reese felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from under her. She had really counted on this working, and wondered why God was punishing her so, but she only had to recall some of her past stunts to summon an answer.

/>   Misreading Reese’s deflated look, Dr. Young said, “Don’t worry, Chris may be a viable donor, and we also have the national bone marrow bank to draw from. By the way, when is Chris taking his DNA tissue typing?”

  Reese took a deep breath. “Dr. Young, I’d much rather go through the national bank.”

  Dr. Young gave her a puzzled expression. “Why? You may not realize it, but that is a lengthy process with many other applicants also in line, and frankly, Rowe doesn’t have that kind of time. You have got to get Chris to take the test, or you’re risking your son’s life,” he said bluntly.

  “What if he isn’t a match either?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, but first things first. Get him tested today.”

  Reese resigned herself to what was in the best interest of Rowe, even if it meant losing her monthly support. Now she could curse herself for spending so much of her settlement, but between buying and furnishing the house, the two cars, and what was left of her investments after the market tanked, she had very little to live on.

  She sucked it up; after all, there was a better than even chance that Chris was Rowe’s father. It didn’t help that he looked exactly like her, showing no obvious signs of Chris or the man behind door number two.

  “I’ll call him right away.”

  “Good,” Dr. Young said. “You can use my phone.” He got up to leave the room, affording her some privacy.

  With reticence, Reese dialed Chris’s cell.

  He picked up on the first ring. “How is he doing?”

  “He’s going to need a bone marrow transplant.” She decided to just spit it out, there was no sugarcoating the reality anymore.

  “A bone marrow transplant? That sounds serious. I thought the chemo was supposed to take care of this.” Concern was now replaced by fear.

  “Dr. Young just feels that both will be necessary to give Rowe the best chance at recovery.”